


Better Than Dreams

by Katbelle



Series: learn me hard, learn me right [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death Fix, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Movie/Brick Fusion, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4049368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The perils of sharing a bed with a person used to sleeping alone. People who sleep alone don't know about many of their own sleeping habits, and it takes another person to find out about them. And then <em>do</em> something about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "BEDSHARING". Haha, I'll just--leave. There were no additional guidelines beside "this is my absolute favorite trope. literally anything with this trope will make me happy" and I--well. 
> 
> I think my mentality can be summed up with "*sees cute prompt* Nice! Would you like to hear my sad and disturbing twist on it?" Which I AM sorry for.

**Better Than Dreams**

_Then thou, at will, mayst question and compel me._

Moonlight fell through the windows, bathing the room in soft, silvery light. There wasn't enough furniture in the room to cast any shadow, and the heavy curtains were drawn aside — he would have to remember to close them back later, as the morning approached, before the sun rose. They had closed them yesterday, after all, when they went to bed. It would be suspicious to have them opened come morning. 

He didn't want to rouse any suspicion.

He ran a hand over his — tired, _tired_ — eyes. Sighed. It was getting ridiculous. Another sigh. But what else could he do. He glanced towards the bed. The covers and the pillow on his side were slightly rumpled, a clear sign that someone lay in the bed, but not for long. On his side, the bed did not look like it was slept-in. He would have to do something about it too.

_Then thou, at will, mayst question and compel me._

On the other side of the bed, a figure, tangled in the sheets, murmuring nonsense. So, no thrashing tonight. This he would count as a good night then.

But still. At least four hours until the sun rises, so perhaps it was too early to count this as anything.

He sighed again. Closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were once more focused on the book in his hands, not the man on the bed. He read the line he was stuck at for what seemed like the sixth time, trying to ignore his surroundings.

_Then thou, at will, mayst question and compel me._

The man on the bed shifted.

_Then thou, at will, mayst--_

He was so tired.

~***~

Another night, as cloudless as they all have been this week. He should be grateful for the cloudless sky and the bright moon, he thought. It made reading easier, and he did not have to light any candles. The full moon would be upon them in a day or two, the windows in the bedroom were tall and let a lot of light in. And the armchair, the armchair was positioned conveniently, facing the window but not close enough to be steeped in the cold emanating from it. 

Another good night tonight, so far.

He couldn't bring himself to be content about that. Tried not to think about how bad the next bad one would be.

Two hours till dawn. 

He flipped to the next page and did not look towards the bed.

~***~

"What are you reading?" Javert asked as he entered the kitchen.

"Good morning to you too," Valjean replied with a smile, gesturing towards the chair opposite himself.

The breakfast was a modest affair, but was already waiting. The tea was prepared and steaming from the teapot, the bread was sliced, the butter and jam waiting on little plates. Javert reached for the butter, but kept his eyes fixed on Valjean, clearly awaiting an answer.

Valjean sighed. "The same book I was reading yesterday," he said, showed Javert the cover. "Thank Foucher for me and tell him I am most grateful he lent it to me. I believe I will be able to give it back to him in the afternoon."

Javert's eyebrows arched in interest. "Today?"

Valjean smiled. "I'm a fast reader."

"You still had more than eighty pages to read when we retired yesterday," Javert noted.

Valjean's smile became strained. He hoped Javert did not see that. "I couldn't sleep tonight," he said, and that wasn't a lie.

~***~

A new book. There were clouds tonight, the moon hidden behind the dark and heavy curtains in the sky. It meant lighting the candle. Or it meant not reading at all, just sitting there, in the dark, waiting, listening--

He was sitting on the bed, back to the headboard, book in his hands, candle flickering on the bedside table. Javert was awake, he could tell, he could tell by the steady sound of his breathing and the weight of his gaze. He was calm, so Valjean could tell.

He could always tell, now. He almost didn't remember the time when he could not.

"You should go to sleep," Javert said, murmured, into his pillow. He lay on his side, one arm under the pillow, the other on the duvet, his left hand splayed open in the space between his body and Valjean's. Not reaching, not _anything_ , just there.

Valjean smiled and this time, this time he was sure Javert noticed it was strained, how could he not. "Just a few pages more," he said and tried to make it sound like he meant it.

Javert clenched his hand, fingers twisted in the thick material of the duvet, then relaxed his grip. Said nothing, just turned to face away from Valjean. 

Valjean sighed. He hoped for another good night. That would make it three in a row, and might be pushing his luck to the extreme, but he still hoped. He did not think he could deal with the alternative.

~***~

Javert was an early riser, years of strict self-discipline left him with the inability to stay in bed past the necessary bare minimum of sleep. Laying in bed for the sole purpose of relaxing a concept was wholly unknown to him, once he woke, he got up. And he woke up very early.

And yet. Every time he woke, got up, went into the kitchen, Valjean was already there. Already at the table which was set, with the breakfast ready and the tea just on the right side of warm. Not hot like a beverage freshly made, not cold like one that has been waiting for too long, just right, just perfect.

Javert could accept that Valjean woke early as well, it would not be a conclusion too far-fetched, but not like this. Not when he woke at what would be considered an ungodly hour to a bed whose one side had sheets rumpled but cold to touch, and to a breakfast that would take at least an hour to prepare ready and waiting.

Valjean knew that, of course he knew that, he saw the growing suspicion that he could do nothing to dispel, he knew that Javert noticed the books and the tea that was warm but not hot, the strained smiles and the tired, tired eyes.

He was yet to say anything, but that would come too. No yet, but soon.

~***~

"What does 'herel' mean?"

Valjean winced at the hollow thud of ceramic hitting wood that resulted from Javert dropping his mug onto the table gracelessly, spilling tea everywhere. Javert blinked and opened his mouth to say something, and he looked a bit paler than usual, but perhaps that was not due to the question, perhaps it was just--Well. This was not a good night, this was one of the bad nights. Three good ones in a row was too much of a lucky streak.

"What?" Javert asked, finally, quiet. He was not looking at Valjean, focused on the spilt tea, a little towel suddenly in hand, pressing it gently to the surface of the table, drying up the liquid before it seeped too deep into the wood and left a stain that would always be there. A reminder.

"'Herel'," Valjean repeated. "What does it mean?"

Javert did look up at that, brow furrowed. Dropped the little towel on his plate. He opened his mouth, again, then closed it. Licked his lips, once, before, "where did you hear that?"

"Oh, on the street," Valjean said, waving a hand dismissively. That was a lie, but Javert did not know when he lied, did not know how to tell, not yet. He would, in time, soon perhaps. He was a quick study and he studied Valjean closely, intimately. "I heard someone scream it."

That part was not a lie.

Javert hummed in response. He cocked his head to the side and his eyes narrowed. There was suspicion in his expression again, a doubt as to whether or not Valjean was telling him the truth. Unable to decide one way or another, he pursed his lips.

"What makes you think I know?"

That was not the reply Valjean expected, but perhaps it should have been. Javert was not a forthcoming person, never has been, so why did Valjean think he would answer the question, why did he assume Javert would give up this sliver of information? It was silly to have assumed that. 

"You told me you were born here," Valjean said, a statement that sounded more like a question. Javert nodded reluctantly. "I just--thought it was the local language."

Javert barked out a small laugh, and no, there was no better word for that. A short sharp sound, forceful at the beginning, relaxed at the end, almost falling flat. Like a dog's bark, not aggressive but playful, cheerful in the way it could be dangerous.

Javert shook his head. And when Valjean thought that he would never answer, he sighed. "'Stop'," he said, and sounded tired, almost defeated. "It means 'stop'."

He did not correct Valjean, did not say it was not a local language, but merely _his_ language. It would make it too personal, too much about him and not enough about things that could easily be dismissed, like an unknown nameless person screaming on the street.

"Ah," Valjean said. " _Ah_."

~***~

Javert sat down by the table opposite Valjean, tight-lipped and clearly unhappy. Even a little bit angry, if his fluttering nostrils were any indication. Valjean pushed a bowl towards him. Quark for breakfast today, fresh quark with chives, radishes and tomatoes to go with that. And coffee. It was not something that Valjean particularly enjoyed, but he knew it was supposed to keep you alert and he feared he was in danger of falling asleep while standing today, and that just could not happen.

"You have not been sleeping," Javert observed. Ah. Finally. Valjean hummed and sipped his coffee. It was strong, too strong, the kind that Javert liked, for reasons that were beyond comprehension. "Would you care to tell me why?"

Valjean gulped the rest of the coffee and made a face. Next time he would take it with milk, maybe that would soften the dour taste. He put his mug down and said nothing.

"I assume this is a 'no', then."

"Why do you think I haven't?"

Javert huffed, indignant, annoyed, something in between, not enough of either to count as a proper emotion. "I am not blind," he said and gestured at Valjean, waved his hand in his direction, in a motion that seemed to convey 'just look at you'. "You look like a man who has not slept in a month, and I do know that you have hardly done so in the last two weeks. Do not insult my intelligence by denying it. Ever since I--"

He stopped mid-sentence with a wide-eyed look of sudden understanding. _Oh_ , he did not have to mouth. His gaze flickered to Valjean's face and he grimaced, pained and bitter, before closing his eyes. And only _then_ did his expression crumble like a disturbed house of cards, the rawest and most sincere display of emotion that Valjean has seen since the night of the barricades. What made him feel that, what did he realise, ever since he what-- _Oh_.

"Oh," Valjean whispered. That whisper was easy to hear in the heavy silence of the kitchen, just one tiny sound that made Javert clench his fist and clench his teeth with equal force. Two weeks ago Valjean had asked — suggested, rather — that Javert come live with him in the house and Javert said 'yes', reluctantly, but he _said 'yes'_. Did he now think that it was his presence in the house that unnerved Valjean enough to make him insomniac? He would, of course he would think that, and that was not true, the two were connected, but not the way he thought.

"The bed," Valjean heard himself say. Javert opened his eyes and was once again calm and collected to the point of appearing emotionless. "It's the bed."

"The bed," Javert repeated in a tone that made it clear he did not believe Valjean.

Valjean smiled anyway. Tried to. "I find it uncomfortable."

Javert arched a brow, dubious, but refrained from commenting.

~***~

Valjean stopped by the door and pushed it open, leaned by the doorframe and rested his head against it. It was a small room, located in the far end of the house, the coldest spot on the property by far. Nothing much in it, a narrow bed, a short bookcase that was still mostly empty, a small desk behind which Javert was now seated. It was the room he claimed as his own, where he dropped the few things he owned, where his books and papers lay in untidy piles that he somehow controlled.

"Is there something you wanted?"

Valjean tore his gaze away from one of the piles of paper, the tallest one that seemed to be wobbling precariously, and looked over to Javert. The man did not turn, was still facing away from Valjean, but he was not hunched over the desk anymore.

"Are you coming to bed?"

Javert took a moment to reply. "Not yet," he said, and turned back to whatever report he has been preoccupied with a moment before. "I have work to do."

He did not hunch over the desk as he would normally at the end of the day when he was relaxed and at _home_. He sat with his back straight like a string tied too tight, ready to snap at any moment. He was aware of Valjean still hovering in the doorway, observing the tense slope of his shoulders, the sharp and ungraceful movements of his hand when he noted something down on a spare sheet of paper. The air around him thrummed with some barely contained restless energy, and it was clear Javert wanted to say more, but he didn't.

Valjean drummed his fingers against the doorframe and the noise broke the tension; Javert's posture seemed to relax a little bit and he bowed his head. "I will wait," Valjean said.

He did intend to do that. He had a good book to finish and the night was bright and cloudless again. But it was quiet and calm and inviting as well, and Valjean was so _tired_ he could not keep his eyelids from dropping nor his eyes from closing nor his body from falling into the warm embrace of duvets and sheets.

He woke when the sunlight peaked through the curtains he had not drawn the night before. He was sprawled across the bed, an undignified heap, with his face buried in a pillow that must have been Javert's, because it smelled like him, it smelled of his sweat and tobacco and coffee. There was a blanket strewn across Valjean's body, one that he did not have when exhaustion claimed him earlier. His book was nowhere to be found on the bed, and when Valjean rose to a sitting position — yawned and stretched himself because he felt warm and content, and it has been quite some time since he last felt this warm and content — he noticed it sitting on the bedside table, neatly bookmarked.

He did not remember bookmarking it.

"Yes," Javert said from the doorway and he did not sound bitter or disappointed or angry, he did not sound _anything_ , "the bed must be truly uncomfortable."

~***~

"If you changed your mind--"

Valjean raised his head. They were sitting in the drawing room, Valjean on the sofa opposite the fireplace, Javert curled up in that old and worn-out armchair a little further in. The armchair did not face the fireplace like the sofa, but it did not face away either, it stood sideways in the corner of the room, and what little light from the fire fell its way made the shadows dance.

"If you changed your mind," Javert repeated, with more force this time, "and you do not want," he waved a hand in a gesture that could mean him, could mean anything else, " _this_ , I would prefer it if you saved me the humiliation and just _said so_."

It sounded rehearsed. Valjean could not help but wonder how long Javert has spent thinking about this conversation, going over what he wanted to say again and again.

"Javert--"

"I will be gone," Javert continued as if he did not hear Valjean speak. Perhaps he didn't. "I will not be a--a burden and I do not enjoy being treated like one."

"You are _not_ ," Valjean said, adamant. He wanted him, wanted Javert here, wanted him more than he could remember wanting anything. "It is--not about that."

"But you will not tell me what the problem is." A sour smile twisted Javert's lips. He huffed in irritation. "Of course."

Valjean stood up and crossed the room to kneel in front of the armchair. His hands landed on the arms of the chair, effectively trapping Javert in place. Valjean searched his face; Javert schooled his features into a mask of perfect calmness and indifference, but his eyes. Valjean sometimes forgot how intense and _blue_ his eyes could be, a reflection of his mood and the fire of his emotions that he usually kept in check, but that sometimes bubbled to the surface nevertheless.

His eyes were the colour of winter sky now, bright and sharp and cold.

Valjean raised his hand and reached to touch, to run his fingers down Javert's cheek. Hesitated, a hair's breadth away; curled his fingers instead, clenched them into a fist that he dropped onto his thighs.

"I love you," he said and it was only the second time he had voiced this sentiment, for all that it was true a long time now. He did not feel comfortable saying it, no matter how true it was, and Javert did not feel comfortable hearing it. The first time was an accident, he did not mean to say it, it just--slipped, in the moment, and then turned into a promise. Yes, I do love you. No, I do not have to hear it back.

Javert exhaled softly and smiled, honestly, a tiny sad smile that hurt more than anything else he could do. "So you say."

~***~

They had sex that night.

Valjean lay on his side, propped on an elbow, and watched Javert sleep. Javert slept facing him, unusual, that, forehead smooth, mouth open, breathing evenly in and out, in and out onto the sheets. His left hand lay between them, palm open, fingers relaxed. He looked peaceful. Valjean reached out and tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind his ear. So peaceful. It broke Valjean's heart to think, any minute now.

Javert's breath hitched and turned raspy, shivers began to rack his tall frame. He twisted his hand in the sheet, grabbed a fistful of it, fingers clenching in the fabric so hard the knuckles turned white. He let out a strangled cry, a half-moan buried in the pillow. One of his legs knocked Valjean's when he twisted in the covers.

"Javert," Valjean started, gently, like it would help, like it would make him wake up, as if it ever had. Javert trashed against him, against the bed, and Valjean reached out, tried to catch his hands. It only resulted in Javert catching _his_ forearm and squeezing, hard, hard enough to leave a bruise, hard enough to--Valjean hissed, but did not try to wrestle his arm back. He managed to wrap his fingers around Javert's wrist and just--held it. It was good, better, this way — Javert's hands were occupied and he was less of a danger to himself.

"What am I supposed to do?" Valjean asked again, posed the question and delivered it to a cold room where no one would hear it and no one would be able to answer.

~***~

Javert cought a glimpse of the bruise forming on Valjean's forearm the next morning. He set his mug down and reached across the kitchen table to grab Valjean's hand. He tugged it closer, rolled up the sleeve of Valjean's shirt and Valjean let him do that, it was not possible to keep secrets from Javert, not when those secrets were colouring his skin red and purple and were easily spotted, not so easily explained.

Javert looked at the bruise, ran his fingers absentmindedly over it, delicate but firm; turned Valjean's arm over and examined the eschars already forming on the skin of the inner forearm, where fingers dug deep enough to break it. He dropped Valjean's arm, withdrew his hand as if burned with a sharp inhale when it finally clicked that the bruise was in the shape of a handprint that fit his fingers perfectly.

"I did that?" he asked, disbelief and apprehension colouring his words. Then, softer, "I hurt you."

Valjean pressed Javert's hand. The bruise was purple-red against his skin, it would take at least a week to fade. "Not your fault," he said, gently, gently, like he used to speak to Cosette once. Dismissed it. Not a problem. "It was an accident. You were dreaming."

Valjean smiled — strained, fake, fake, _fake_ — and reached for the jam. The little half-lie settled uncomfortably over him, somewhere between the exhaustion of the sleepless nights and the awareness of Javert's anxiety. He knew Javert was looking at him, was looking at the purple-red imprint just above the scars on his wrist. He avoided making eye contact.

They ate breakfast in silence and did not speak of it for the remainder of the day.

~***~

Four bad nights in a row. A fifth one, most likely, just about to begin. Three good ones in a succession were too much, apparently, but the string of the bad ones could be never-ending. It felt as if he had gone a week without sleeping. Surely not. But perhaps? He managed to catch a nap here and there during the day and early in the evening, and there was that one night when Javert put a blanket over him and he slept with his head buried in Javert's pillow.

He did not know that Javert had nightmares, never noticed it before, before they went to sleep in the same bed — _their_ bed — night after night. But even if he knew, before, it would not have changed anything, he loved the man, wanted him, _wanted him_ , and if this was a price for that, if this was what he had to sacrifice for him, he would. He could deal with the sleepless nights and the exhaustion and the _fear_ gripping his heart, squeezing it every time he had to hold Javert's wrists and call his name, every time he could not wake him up, could not wake him, could not--

He could, he _could_ deal with the thrashing, with the sounds, the whimpers, the moans, the cries, the litany of nonsensical words that Valjean could not make out, but knew were not in French, he _could_ deal with all that, just not today, he could deal with all of that any day but _not today_ , today he just wanted it to stop, he wanted it to _stop_ because it sounded painful and fearful, and sounds like that were not supposed to leave a human throat and--

Valjean reached out and clasped his hand over Javert's mouth before he was even conscious of doing it. It shocked him, this action, a desperate and foolish attempt to just _make it stop_. It shocked him even further when Javert's eyes snapped open, wide and wild and so blue, and the man tensed under him but made no move, and Valjean has never seen him this scared before.

He took the hand away immediately and Javert scrambled to a sitting position, backed away until his back was flush with the headboard and his knees were bent and pressed to his chest, and he was breathing hard and still looked so damn scared.

Javert blinked, once, twice, thrice in rapid succession, trying to calm his breathing, to calm a racing heart that beat so fast Valjean could almost hear it. He did not say a word and the silence between them stretched. He did not ask 'what were you trying to do?' to which Valjean would have felt compelled to answer 'I was not trying to suffocate you' if only because the fear in those wild blue eyes was not something he would soon forget. 

Ever. Ever forget.

But Javert did not say a word, kept breathing steadier and steadier, and his eyes danced around the room, taking into his surroundings, ascertaining where he was in a way that would have been discreet if Valjean had not been observing him like a hawk.

So it was Valjean who broke the silence, his voice an intrusion against it, cutting through the charged air like shards of glass. "What were you dreaming about?"

Javert's carefully built neutral expression collapsed at that and he bowed his head, pressed his face against his knees. He put his hands over his head and stayed like that for a long time.

~***~

"Is this why you haven't been sleeping?"

Javert was sitting on the bed, Valjean in the armchair next to the window. It was past noon, a bright autumn day and Javert should be out patrolling the streets or behind his desk, but he was in no state to work today so Valjean made him stay. The fact that Javert conceded to that with little argument was proof enough that he was in no way capable of working.

"Yes," Valjean said, because there was no point in lying. There never was, in all honesty, no point beside--

"I'm sorry," Javert blurted out, rushed. "I thought this has stopped when I was younger."

Valjean hummed, because what else could he do, what else could he say to that. 'You were wrong' was honest and truthful, but would hardly help.

"Why did you not tell me?" Javert asked, _demanded_ even, and sounded angry. Angry was good, was better than the fear of yesterday and the nothing he so far displayed today. "You should have told me. I would not have come to your bed, I would have stayed--I would have _left_ \--"

"That," Valjean interrupted him, pointing a finger in his direction, "is precisely why I did not tell you."

~***~

He stayed away, for the next couple of days. Stayed up all night the first day, writing and reading up on old reports in his small cold room at the end of the corridor. The second night he spent on duty, on patrol that lasted until early hours in the morning. The third night — the third night he spent curled in his armchair in the drawing room, pretending that he was not falling asleep on his feet, pretending that it was not only the copious amounts of coffee that kept him awake, amounts that would have probably poisoned and killed anyone less stubborn.

Valjean was--he wasn't ungrateful, for that. Exhaustion claimed him that first night and he was asleep before he even managed to lay down on the bed. He slept, not very well as he kept expecting to be woken, but he slept. In the morning felt better than he had in days, a feeling that evaporated when he saw Javert's bloodshot eyes. What was left was unsettling unrest.

He was fine, Javert said. Insisted that he was fine.

The second night he could not sleep, worried himself into a state of agitation that did not disappear as night progressed into day. The third night he hovered by the door leading to the drawing room, unable to decide if he should leave and respect Javert's choices, or if he should enter, because _clearly_ this was not working any better.

He left, in the end, and lay awake all night, listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairs that never came.

~***~

"You should go to sleep."

Javert ran a hand over his eyes. Put down his pen, put away the paper he was writing on, dropped it on the top of a pile that was taking over his desk.

"So should you," he countered and aimed for a smile.

Valjean extended his hand in an invitation. "Come with me."

Javert shook his head. His blue eyes were dull like a cloudy autumn sky. "You cannot sleep when I'm there."

"I cannot sleep when you are not there either," Valjean replied and Javert winced. So he must have heard him outside the drawing room then. "We are rather faced with an impasse."

Javert did not move. He bit his lip and refused to meet Valjean's eyes, gaze focused on Valjean's forearm. The bruise there had faded to dirty yellow, the colour of his old coat, and would disappear soon. The two little cuts on the inside of his forearm were shallow and would not scar.

The next sentence was a question posed as a statement, because Valjean was fairly certain of the answer, but felt compelled to ask anyway. "You will not tell me what you are dreaming about."

"No," Javert replied, and there it was. A beat. "Perhaps one day."

That was more than unlikely to happen, but Valjean said nothing.

"I worry," he admitted instead.

"Why?" Javert asked. 

Why do you worry? Why do you even care? Why would you ever love me? Why, why, why. When Cosette was younger, she kept asking these questions, why this, why that, why, Papa? Her curiosity was childlike and innocent, and he answered her to the best of his abilities. Javert's was heartbreaking, and he had no real answers for him.

Valjean raised his brows, but said nothing. Did not have to; they both knew why Valjean worried and they both knew he had reasons to. In lieu of providing an answer, Valjean wiggled the fingers of his still extended hand. _Come_.

Javert gritted his teeth, but stood up from behind the desk and took the hand.

~***~

"Good night, then," Javert murmured as he turned his back towards Valjean. "Sleep well," he added as an afterthought and Valjean could hear the sarcastic undertone in his voice, the dry humour making him shake his head fondly.

"Likewise."

The irony was not lost, of course, because out of the two of them it was not Valjean that would be sleeping, and no one in their right mind would ever say that Javert slept _well_. It was interesting that despite _everything_ it was Valjean who was the well-adjusted one in this regard, or the _better_ -adjusted one at least. Perhaps that was the consequence of sharing one's house with another. Or even the virtue of knowing that there was someone who would care.

The nightmares came with the tremors and the noise tonight as well, but never like a clockwork, you could never tell just when they would start. Not even every night, there was one or two that were peaceful and nightmare-free, but most nights, a grand majority of nights, they would come eventually. Valjean wondered, sometimes, what were they about. Javert talked in his sleep and Valjean caught a word here and there, most of it not in French; Valjean knew now what 'herel' meant and 'no' — a choked repetition of it, chilling every single time he heard it — he would recognise in any language. It wasn't nearly enough to make sense of the dreams, and Valjean promised himself early on that he would _not_ ask.

He could ask about other things, but not about this. Not ever.

It was better this way, Valjean thought. He would not sleep either way, with or without Javert here, and having him here meant that he could at least make sure Javert would not hurt himself.

"Javert. _Javert_ ," he called his name, futilely, as Javert never woke, no matter how insistent and loud Valjean's voice was. Valjean's caught his flailing hand, clasped his wrist in his hand, scooped closer to Javert and pinned his arm to his side. Leaned a bit over the man, used his strength to keep him in place, keep him still. He sighed. Moved Javert's arm to fold it close to his chest so that Javert could lay on the side easier. The motion brought Valjean's own arm across Javert's chest and he wrapped it around him, _keeping him still_. Valjean's free hand crept to tangle in Javert's hair.

"What am I supposed to do?" Valjean murmured into the sweaty skin of Javert's neck. He stroked Javert's hair, felt the texture of it under his fingertips. Placed a soft kiss at the point where Javert's neck met his shoulder. "Please tell me what to do."

Gradually, Javert stopped trembling under his hands, and his erratic breathing evened out. He was still murmuring under his breath, a string of words that Valjean could not understand and a handful that he could, but he was not thrashing, just shivering. His fingers unclenched and Valjean managed to sneak his own over them. With a huff, Javert settled.

Interesting.

~***~

Javert had offered, of course, to sleep in that tiny cold bedroom. It was unreasonable, he claimed, for Valjean to suffer this way in his own bed in his own house. It was taking advantage. Valjean disagreed, though he was unable to produce a reason. He was not being sensible, he knew, Javert has managed just _fine_ on his own for over fifty years, that was unlikely to change now.

And yet.

Javert dropped gracelessly onto the bed and immediately curled on his side. He did not utter a word, but Valjean could not fault him for that. He had heard about it over dinner. It was a long and tiring day, it ended in a brawl and an arrest, and the cut on Javert's cheek was a testament to that.

Javert lay on his side, facing away from Valjean. He usually fell asleep like that, no matter what they did beforehand, and — despite all the thrashing and twisting — always ended up in this same position. He slept slightly curled up on himself, close to the edge of the bed, as if poised to flee.

Valjean bookmarked his book and put it on the floor. He turned on his side and pressed closer to Javert, pressed against his body. Javert tensed and flinched when Valjean's fingers touched his hip — but not in apprehension, no, that much Valjean could read, so a bruise perhaps, Javert did not mention that — and Valjean's arm sneaked around his middle.

"What are you doing?" Javert asked. He liked to touch, but those were little touches, something that could be brushed off as casual. This was almost too much, more intimate than sex, more personal, more _frightening_.

"Trust me." It was half-command, half-question, and Valjean waited for Javert to nod his assent. He bent his knees to fit them behind Javert's, and they were lying flush together, Valjean's chest to Javert's back, the fronts of his thighs to the backs of Javert's.

"What--"

"Shh." Valjean dropped a kiss to Javert's shoulder. "It's all right."

Javert was right, of course, in saying that Valjean was some forty years too late to be his saviour and protector, but he could _try_. He pressed another kiss, this time between the shoulder blades, and he felt Javert begin to relax. The tension left his shoulders, his back bowed, curved to fit the outline of Valjean's body behind him.

"Everything is all right," Valjean repeated into his hair and prayed for a good night.

~***~

The light falling through the windows blinded him when he opened his eyes. He groaned and raised his hand to rub at his eyes. Curtains. He forgot about the curtains the night before.

"Good morning."

He moved his hand away and looked sideways down. Javert was propped up on an elbow, left hand splayed on Valjean's chest, fingers drumming on the skin over his heart, in tune with its beat. There was a strange look in his eyes, something Valjean nearly recognised. Warm, almost vulnerable. If he noticed such a look on Marius, Valjean would call it flustered, maybe bashful. In the context of Javert such words seemed inappropriate.

"Slept well?"

Valjean pondered the question for a second. He could tell that Javert was nervous, the drumming of his fingers fell out of sync with Valjean's heartbeat. Or perhaps it was his heart that sped up.

"Yes, actually," he answered. Javert nodded. "You?"

Javert's eyes darted to the arm Valjean put above his head. The bruise was gone and the fingernail marks did not scar, just like he thought. Valjean smiled. Raised a brow playfully. Javert locked eyes with him, then glanced back to the arm before settling his gaze just below Valjean's chin. He bit his lower lip, worried it between his teeth.

"Better," he said, when Valjean was sure he would never bring himself to say anything. "Valjean, I--"

He closed his mouth. Opened it and closed again. Swallowed, bit down on his lower lip once more. There was a speck of blood there, he must have caught and tore some skin between his teeth. He looked like he did not know what to say. He looked like he had too much to say and too little words to phrase and express it.

Valjean waited. Finally, Javert laughed quietly and shook his head. He put his chin on Valjean's chest and laughed again. "Nothing, it's nothing," he whispered into the skin over Valjean's heart. Looked up and at Valjean with an expression so intense it seemed he tried to convey _everything_ through it, everything that he lacked the words for.

"Nothing?"

" _Thank you_."

**Author's Note:**

> The title taken from a quote by Dr. Seuss: "You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” I swear, at some point of my writing process this seemed FUNNY. The book Valjean is reading in the first segment is Goethe's "Faust".


End file.
